


Right and Proper

by Meredydd



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/pseuds/Meredydd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is inspired by/in response to a prompt on the sherlockbbc_fic lj comm in which Mycroft, ever concerned for his baby brother’s “space cadet-ness”, begins giving John gifts in appreciation for his caring for Sherlock and basically keeping him alive.  The prompt was based on an IM conversation between the prompter and a friend and included the phrase “fucking tiny saint” so I had to work that phrase in here since it’s just so damned cute...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

    Mycroft Holmes tapped his fingers in agitation as he watched the footage of his brother ( _baby brother, little brother_ , his mother’s voice reminded him firmly) falling into the Thames, long arms wrapped around a chav-looking man who, Mycroft knew, would be arrested in moments.  The pair was followed into the river by John Watson, shucking his coat and shoes as he ran, diving in and resurfacing with Sherlock in arms, kicking towards the bank despite Sherlock’s struggles and protests.  Mycroft had watched the few minutes of tape at least six times since the incident occurred that morning and six times, he felt his stomach twist into a burning knot until John resurfaced with Sherlock in tow.  Only then, after seeing the long, gangly form with it’s sodden great coat sprawled on the littered bank like some overgrown bat, the compact form of the ( _his_ , Mycroft’s brain supplied unasked) doctor railing at him with arm waving and a clearly seen “what the fuck” expression on his face, did the knot ease and Mycroft could exhale easily.  He had a small collection in one of his safes, all video footage of Sherlock over the years.  He divided it into two sections: Before Watson and With Watson.  Before Watson was the cause of several ulcers and the footage used to track down Sherlock when he went missing, when he turned up in a skip somewhere, dirty needles in his jacket pockets and arms black and blue.  The footage was always carefully edited out of the official tapes, always kept from Mummy, always used to remind Mycroft that his brother, while brilliant, was not capable of keeping himself alive without help.  
     
    “Sir?”

    “Higgins,” Mycroft shut off the footage and leaned back in his chair.  “Deliver this package to Doctor John Watson within the hour.  The direction is on the card.”

    Higgins hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat slightly before offering, “Sir, shall I wait to see if he returns this, too?”

    Mycroft raised a brow.  “That will be all, Higgins.”  He waited until the door closed and then counted to thirty before pressing play for the seventh time in three hours.

 

     
    John still smelled faintly of the Thames, despite a vigorous shower and a liberal application of aftershave (mental note: thank Harry for the late birthday present, it came in useful after all).  He hoped that the elderly lady in his office didn’t have some odd reaction to the combination of river water, soap and something called Lynx which he suspected was made of actual lynx scent glands, given the odor of the stuff.  Mrs. Collins did not seem to notice though, tottering from the office a few minutes later with a parting promise to send her ‘lovely granddaughter ‘round for a check up’ since she would likely be ‘just your type, Doctor Watson.  Lovely girl, very into pharmaceuticals, from what her mother says.’  John didn’t have the heart to tell her that likely meant the woman was a drug addict of some form, so instead smiled and nodded and shut the door behind her, making it to his desk before he collapsed in a yawning fit. 

    “John Watson?”  
     
    He looked up, entire body going on alert.  “Who’s asking?”  Not a patient, he thought--hadn’t rung for one, and no patient calls their doctor by their full name. 

    “Package for you from Mister Holmes.”  The tall, dark-suited man crossed the room in three strides and placed the carefully (expensively, tastefully, Holmesian, John noticed) wrapped package on the desk before him.  “Good afternoon, sir.”

    “Wait!” John was on his feet, pressing the package back into the man’s hands.  “Tell Mycroft thanks, but no thanks.”  This was the fourth present to come his way and the fourth he’d returned, despite the strong temptation to keep each one (very nice leather wallet, new mp3 player, tickets to a sold out rugby match, and now this...whatever it was). 

    The man smiled tightly.  “Sorry, sir.  Just told to drop this off, not take it back.”  He was out of the room, door shut firmly in his wake, before John could stop him.

    “Shit.”  John dropped the package on his desk and closed his eyes for a moment.  If he didn’t know better, he would think that Mycroft Holmes was courting him.  Presents, the occasional visit by Anthea (or whatever her name was this week) to check on him, the not-so-mysterious restocking of the fridge and tea supply while he and Sherlock were out on a case... John thought about texting Sherlock, asking him just what his brother was about, but thought better of it before his fingers could even find his phone in his coat pocket.  “Just what I need,” John muttered.  “Two Holmeses giving me that look...”

 

    Sherlock frowned at the text from Mycroft.  “How should I know what size jacket John wears?” he snapped at it, even though he did, in fact, know and suspected that Mycroft could find out without too much trouble if he really wanted to do so.  “Aaaaaah... must be an assistant texting on his behalf then.  Tasked them to find out John’s size and they thought to be clever.  Ha!” He typed as much back to the sender and threw the phone down with a flourish, flopping back on the sofa with a dramatic sigh, wasted on his lack of audience (unless one counted the skull, which he certainly did not--they were on the outs this week).  After a moment, he sat bolt upright.  “Why would he need to know anyway?”  The phone was out of reach, otherwise he would text John and ask just why his brother was purchasing him jackets.  Can it wait till tonight, Sherlock wondered, eyeing the phone down by his right foot.  He considered using his toes to pick it up and bring it to hand-level, then sighed and flopped back down.  “Mrs. Hudson! I need you!”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The pile of gifts in Mycroft’s John Watson Cupboard was growing daily. The wallet, the watch, the phone, the mp3 player, the (rather nice, even by Holmes standards) leather jacket had all joined the pile since Sherlock and John’s dip into the Thames. The latest item waiting to be returned had just left with Higgins: a state of the art laptop (he had even brought himself to leave out the monitoring devices, out of consideration for all that John had done for Sherlock). That morning had scene a rare panic for Mycroft; he had awoken with the sinking feeling that something had happened to Sherlock, something dreadful. A review of CCTV footage showed nothing--his brother had not even left the flat all evening, nor had any ambulance or police cars arrived at Baker Street. Still, he could not shake the feeling and it persisted, slimy and thick in his belly, until Anthea had checked in with John and received (shouted, barely civil) assurances that Sherlock was just fine and so was he, thank you very much for asking and now please get out of my office there are sick people waiting. Ignoring the text on his phone (the third one from Sherlock since midmorning, all pointedly asking why Mycroft was stalking John and didn’t he know that John was not interested? When asked ‘Interested in what?’, Mycroft was treated to a reminder that all of the public school education in the world cannot erase the lessons in cursing from the Cockney gardner), Mycroft pressed a discreet button on his desk and waited. Anthea appeared a moment later.

“Yes, sir?”

“What is on my schedule for tea this afternoon?”

“Meeting with the Sudanese, sir.”

“Reschedule it. I’ll be taking tea with Doctor Watson.”

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose as if the action could stave off the impending migraine. The gift was obviously a computer--Mycroft had not even bothered to wrap it this time. Or have it wrapped, rather. The mental image of Mycroft Holmes hunched over a kitchen table, strips of cello tape and torn wrapping paper littering the surface, was enough to make John’s brain stutter to a halt for a moment, drawing a bubble of laughter to the surface. “Alright, then?” Sarah asked from the doorway.

“Oh, fine, fine.” He shoved the new lap top under his desk and pretended that Sarah was not staring openly at his feet, tapping gently atop the expensive electronics. “You?”

“Oh...fine...” Edging into his office, she shut the door carefully behind her and leaned against it. John’s smile froze--this, he thought, was not going to go well. “John,” she said carefully, like a teacher about to scold a sensitive pupil, “I understand why you and I didn’t...work out and I can appreciate an enthusiastic exploration of options but I am afraid I just can’t allow you to carry on a courtship in the office, at least not so openly. The staff is far too distracted by the comings and goings of your boyfriend’s, ah, minions...”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” John protested. “With or without minions!”

“John,” she countered kindly, “it’s fine.”

He mentally cursed his own words coming back to haunt him as he shoved himself to his feet and tried to close the distance between himself and Sarah, but she held up a staying hand, smiling in a tired, resigned fashion. “Sarah, I’m not dating...anyone! Male or female!”

“John, I mean it...it’s fine. I understand. My cousin just came out and he’s forty-six so I know it can take...well, a lifetime before....well, before you can say something!”

He saw the flush creeping up her neck, the way she couldn’t meet his eyes. “Sarah, please believe me...”

“Anyway!” She smiled too brightly, her voice too loud for the small room. “You’re off now so I suppose we’ll see you in the morning, bright and early! Just please let Sherlock know that he needs to stop sending his, ah, helpers by with gifts for you!” She opened the door and backed out, smile still in place, leaving John to stare after her with an open mouth and furrowed brow.

“Your face,” Sherlock’s voice intoned from the corridor, “is going to stick like that.”

“Sherlock!” John looked left to see the detective loitering against the wall, sulk firmly in place. “You need to tell Mycroft to leave off!”

Sherlock fell into step beside John as he dropped the day’s files off at the front desk and signed out of work. Only when they had reached the pavement outside did he ask, “Leave off what, exactly?” He could hear the clipped tone in his voice but did not care. “You left your computer behind. It’s expensive--you should go back and get it.”

“It’s not mine,” John all but growled . “It’s bloody Mycroft’s! If he wants it, he can send Anthea or that gorilla in a suit to pick it up! Or better yet, get it his own damned self!”

“Higgins,” Sherlock murmured absently, stepping out into the street to flag a cab. 

“What?”

“Higgins. The gorilla in the suit is named Higgins.” He gave John an assessing glance, automatically cataloging every detail down to the last speck of lint on his collar. He opened his mouth to say something, deduce something about John’s day, but was staved off by a wave of the doctor’s hand.

“I really don’t want to hear it, Sherlock,” John groaned. “I’ve been putting off your brother for weeks and it’s just gotten worse--”

“What do you mean, ‘gotten worse’? Is he harassing you?”

John recognized that light, almost careless tone. He sighed, knowing that he was being inspected. “Not as such. Oh, look, there’s a sale on at Tesco. Do we need eggs?”

“I’m incubating a virus in the ones we have now,” Sherlock replied, shrugging. “Why did my brother want to know your coat size?”

An image of the nice black leather jacket popped into John’s mind and he sighed. “He sent me a jacket with a note saying that mine didn’t look warm enough.”

Sherlock made humming noise low in his throat and shifted to look out of the window on his side of the cab. John fidgeted, waiting for a cutting remark, a sharp comment. When none came, he tilted his head and found Sherlock’s lowered eyes. “Mycroft,” Sherlock said before John could bore him with polite concern, “has overstepped boundaries yet again.”

“Um...” 

The cab rolled to a halt and Sherlock vaulted out, going three or four steps before turning on one heel, striding back and shoving a handful of notes (far too many, John noted with the mild panic of the financially strained) at the driver. The detective gave John a tight smile that did not even come close to reaching his eyes and held out his hand as if to hurry him along. John slid out and stood, face pinched in confusion as he took in Sherlock’s still extended hand. “Oh, for...” Before John realized it, Sherlock had taken his hand and was half-dragging him towards the door. 

“What the Hell are you doing?” John demanded, part of him wondering why he was not even trying to extract himself from Sherlock’s grasp. It felt...nice, he decided. Not in an  
earth shattering way, but just nice. Warm fingers, strong but not painful grip, slight tug as if to say hurry, you’re with me... 

“Mycroft is joining us for tea,” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder as if that was all the explanation needed. 

“WHAT?”

“In about ten minutes,” Sherlock added, now pulling John in earnest up the stairs. “Dress smart and for God’s sake, don’t brew the stuff in the green tin. It’s nightshade.”


	3. Chapter Three

 

 

John stood in the kitchen, seriously considering the green tin. Nightshade poisoning would be unpleasant, he mused, but it would certainly get him out of the flat while Mycroft and Sherlock had an epic staring contest in the living room. He was sorely tempted to turn the sink sprayer on them like he would two fighting tomcats but resisted the urge--barely--due to the thought of Mrs. Hudson raising their rent to cover water damage. The silence in the flat was deafening and John wanted nothing more than to take the (very nicely, in expensive paper) wrapped present that Mycroft had placed on the coffee table, throw it out the window and tell both Holmes brothers to fetch. Sherlock had been hovering over him like a great, gangling crow since the arrival of Mycroft and, for his part, the elder Holmes had simply smiled, complimented John on his jumper (Why yes, it was new, how did... never mind. Just...never mind.) and taken up a post in the armchair nearest the fireplace. Sherlock perched on the sofa, fingers steepeled, eyes narrowed. John had excused himself to the kitchen where he still stood, long after the kettle had screeched for him to take it off the hob.

“John,” Mycroft said, his cultured tones breaking the icy tension but only just. “I take my tea with one sugar.”

“Ah, right.” Was that, John thought, a come-on? Some odd Holmes trait where they flirt through commands and direction? Hurriedly preparing the mugs of tea, John went back to the living room, tray in hand, and froze. Sherlock and Mycroft were now standing extremely close to one another, arguing in low (very low) tones, words muffled in seething public school accents.

“I’ll just set this here then, shall I?” John asked brightly, sliding the tray onto the table. He wasn’t sure, but he thought that he heard his own name and the word “inappropriate” hissed by Sherlock. He was sure, however, that Mycroft laughed. Dear God, John begged, slipping back towards the kitchen, please let Sarah call me back to work now...

“Whatever you are thinking,” Mycroft intoned from the kitchen doorway, “I am certain in saying it will not happen.”

“...ah.” Forcing a smile, he turned to face Sherlock’s brother. Mycroft’s intense gaze reminded him eerily of Sherlock’s, but where he got pleasant gooseflesh and a lovely, melty feeling in his stomach when the younger Holmes turned that look upon him, Mycroft’s interpretation made John feel like a lab specimen, flayed open and in the midst of dissection. “So why did you feel the need to stop by for tea then? All of the national crises on a break?”

“They resume in an hour.” John was not entirely sure if that was sarcasm or not. “Why haven’t you opened or kept any of the presents, John?”

He glanced past Mycroft but the living room looked empty. Damn Sherlock, he thought, running off instead of sucking it up, being a man and rescuing me from his brother’s attentions!

“Mycroft, I...appreciate...the intent but I cannot accept presents from you.”

“Why not?”

The petulant note was almost impossible to discern in Mycroft’s tone but John had lived with Sherlock long enough to detect the faint trace of childishness. “Because,” John sighed, already exasperated, “I can do for myself, thank you, and I just...don’t want these things!” He shoved a tea towel through the fridge handle and tried his best not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. “Pardon me, Mycroft, but I have...work to do.” He edged past, careful not to touch Sherlock’s brother, hissing in annoyance and surprise when his arm was grabbed, body tugged back from the threshold. “Let go of me. Now.” He heard the soldier in his own voice, sharp edges and hard underpinnings. Mycroft, judging by the slight narrowing of his eyes, heard it as well but he did not let go. Instead, he held on tightly, tilting his head just a fraction, peering at John so steadily that nervousness began to work it’s way up his gullet and into his throat, threatening to manifest in a wholly inappropriate laugh. Before he could find himself entirely embarrassed, Mycroft released him and nodded once, curtly, and turned to leave. John stared, jaw slack, and felt the laugh in his throat finally reach critical mass. If Mycroft or Sherlock heard him giggle into a wadded up tea towel, neither said anything.

 

Sherlock intercepted his brother at the foot of the stairs. “Did you have a touching rendez-vous with John?” he snarled, aware of the possessive ‘my’ that so wanted to slip in before John’s name. His blogger, his doctor, his flatmate, his friend! Not Mycroft’s! Not anyone else’s, damn it to Hell!

“Always so dramatic. Mummy would be most upset to hear, Sherlock. She had so hoped that you outgrew the theatrics.”

“Mycroft,” he said tightly, part of him mindful of the way sound carried straight up the stairs, mindful that he did not need those pitying looks from John, the chiding sighs and eye rolls. “John is not yours to seduce!”

Mycroft blinked, his usually very active brain skidding to a halt, revving for a moment, then slamming into gear, the mental wheels jerking in an entirely new direction. John wouldn’t accept material presents for being Sherlock’s protector, perhaps he would accept something more...ephemeral? Smiling like a predator scenting fresh blood, Mycroft shot his cuffs and gathered his umbrella from it’s place in the stand by the door. “Really, Sherlock...it’s not as if you have a claim on Doctor Watson.” He paused, smiled in the way big brothers throughout history have smiled at younger brothers when they had found just the right button to push and were relishing it. “Perhaps he is not mine to seduce, Sherlock, but I do not think he is yours, either” Yet, he added silently, letting himself out into the late afternoon. He did not need to look to know the gesture Sherlock offered behind his back.


	4. Chapter 4

 

    A week went by in which John did not receive any presents or attempted presents from Mycroft.  Not a single iPod, Blackberry, smartphone, item of clothing... not even a single chocolate or offer for a ride when it was pissing down rain the likes of which London had not seen in decades.  That last nicety, John thought as he sloshed his way up the stairs to the flat, he would have accepted.  But made it very clear that he’s not the sort who puts out on the first date, he added with a giggle to himself.  He made it all the way to the door of the flat before he noticed that something was...off.  He could smell food--real, homecooked, not drowned in salty take away sauce food--and, oddly, roses.  The first thought, that of Sherlock having a date, was discarded as quickly as it came.  The next, that Mrs Hudson was attempting to arrange a romantic dinner for “her two” was more likely but, John reminded himself, the kind lady was away in Newcastle, visiting an old school friend for the week.  No, he decided, the most likely explanation was that Sherlock was performing some experiment, likely about hunger and overworked doctors, and he would go in to discover the food was tainted with botulism or too much salt or  something else unpalatable.  Sighing, he pushed open the door, and came to a complete halt.  “What on Earth...”

    “Mycroft,” Sherlock growled from his perch on the sofa.  “Apparently, he feels the need to feed you up.  Like a girlfriend,” he added mirthlessly, reminding John of one of their first (awkward, embarrassing) conversations.  In the middle of the living room, spread across the coffee table, was an array of food ranging from Yorkshire pudding and roast to an apparently vegetarian ragout.  Almost spitefully, Sherlock said, “He couldn’t remember if you were a vegetarian or not, it seems.”  
    John blinked, shook himself, and looked away, only to be confronted with a dizzying bouquet of roses of every color.  “Good Lord, did he rob the flower shops between here and Sussex?”  
    “John.” Sherlock’s voice was rough around the edges, a tone John recognized as withheld anger, introverted irritation.  Two things quite unusual but not unheard of for Sherlock.   
    “What? I thought your brother got the message--he hasn’t sent me a thing in a week.  Bloody Hell, how are we going to send this all back?  I think we have some plastic ware under the sink... Unless that’s what you’re using to store your mealworm farm.”  He started for the kitchen, inwardly sighing in regret at the idea of missing out on the home cooked food, but was stopped by Sherlock’s sudden appearance.  “Good God, do you teleport or something?”  
    “Telewhat?”  
    “Nothing. Pop culture, likely deleted as soon as I tell you.”  
    “May as well eat,” Sherlock grumbled.  “I couldn’t make Higgins and Miriam take it back.”  
    “Miriam?”  
    “Mycroft’s PA.  She’s Miriam this week.”  
    “...right.”  John shifted, glanced past Sherlock and shrugged.  “Fine.  But I’m sending  note ‘round to Mycroft via CCTV that this needs to stop.”  He was not sure, but he thought that he caught a glimmer of a smirk on Sherlock’s lips as they headed for the rapidly cooling dinner. 

    They made it to the dessert course before Sherlock held out a (very expensive, heavy paper) envelope between thumb and forefinger.  “This came with it.  From my brother.”  
    John dabbed his lips with one of the linen napkins provided with the meal, feeling a bit odd to have white tablecloth service on his living room floor.  Taking the envelope, he was pleased to see that Sherlock had actually eaten a bit--likely just to spite Mycroft since the food and flowers and wine had been provided with John’s name on it, according to Miriam.  “What is it?”  
    “How should I know?”  
    “You didn’t open it and read it?”  He ripped the envelope open and shot his friend a wry look.  “I’m a bit disappointed.”  
    “Really, John,” Sherlock snorted.  “Don’t be droll before the brandy.”  
    John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s suddenly very posh, very mocking accent.  Flipping open the plain white, embossed (MH) card, he frowned.  “Your brother is insane.”  
    “Mmmmm.”  
    “He says that he’s worried I’m not eating right, chasing about after you, and he intends to send dinner over every day for the next month to ensure there’s at least one meal a day that isn’t out of a vending machine or chip shop.”  He rolled his eyes and tossed the card down on the table.  “He was just biding his time!”  
    Sherlock licked the cream from a profiterole off his thumb.  “We can decamp to 221C for the next month, if you’d like.”  
    John eyed the last of his wine with something akin to longing (it really was damned good...) and shook his head.  “No, I’m nipping this in the bud.  Tonight.”  He hesitated and snatched up a cream cake, shoving the rest towards Sherlock.  “Bin these or I’ll eat them all.”  
    Sherlock shrugged then, but did not move to throw out the cream cakes as John rose to find paper and pen.  Tucking a few treats in his bathrobe pockets, he suggested, “I’d use the CCTV camera at the corner of the high street... Better lighting.”

 

    Mycroft thumbed through the DVDs carefully, fully aware of what was on each one without even looking at the labels.  They were in chronological order, some days having as many as seven or eight scenes of Sherlock in danger, usually on cases.  Always, Mycroft reminded himself, on cases, at least since John had come into his life.  The older DVDs, transferred from tape ages ago, were the ones he only looked at when he needed a reminder that things could be worse  Scenes of Sherlock, thin to the point of skeletal, laying behind a skip, bleeding from the nose, vomit down his shirt.  Sherlock pressed against a garage door, doing things for a hit that Mycroft wished he could delete from his mind’s eye.  No, he preferred the ones With John (capitals necessary).  Mingled with the scenes of Sherlock in danger, John at his side, were scenes of John filling  grocery cart at Tesco’s, making Sherlock replace something dodgy he found in the morgue...  Yes, Mycroft thought, barely sparing a glance at the CCTV feed with John jumping up and down, holding a boldly lettered sign.  “I know your weakness, little brother, and I’m going to exploit it for your own good.”  Shutting off the monitor, he rose and buzzed for Higgins.  When the man appeared, he nodded towards the envelope on his desk and said, “These are to be delivered to Doctor Watson tomorrow morning, as soon as he sets foot in the clinic.  When he leaves the clinic, you will be there to pick him up and take him to my personal tailor for a fitting.”  
    “Sir?”  
    “He needs a tuxedo for this gala.  Oh,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Make sure that my brother knows what is going on before John can complain to him.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

    Mycroft rarely drank enough to feel tipsy, much less buzzed, but Sherlock had driven him to it that evening.  Literally.  Well, it was Higgins doing the driving but Sherlock had leapt out of the car somewhere in Kensington, managing to somehow jigger the locks and get the door open before Mycroft could notice or stop him.  Making  mental note to read his security professionals the riot act about the auto pool and the devices therein, he flipped on the DVD player to review the CCTV footage from shortly after the incident.  There, Sherlock running pell-mell down the pavement, phone in hand, texting as his stork-legs ate up the distance.  Then he disappeared.  Mycroft could see himself, standing on the pavement, Higgins and Anthea tugging him back into the car (Safety, sir, wouldn’t do to have you killed, sir, not a safe location, sir--Bugger it, Mycroft thought, if Kensington isn’t a safe location for a toff in a bespoke suit, where was?).  He took another sip of his drink and fastforwarded until John Watson appeared on the screen, running in the direction Sherlock had disappeared.  The lapse between Sherlock’s escape and John’s arrival was twenty minutes; John, Mycroft mused, must have found the best cabbie in London or have a store of miracles saved up, to make it so far in so little time.  “John Watson, tiny fucking saint,” he chuckled, the warmth of the single malt loosening his tongue.   The debacle had apparently not stemmed so much from  Sherlock’s aversion to family dinners with Mummy as it had from the detective spotting a suspect in an arson case in which six people had died whilst locked in a shed.  The digital recording, speeding past until Mycroft hit stop, then play, held his complete attention because he knew what was going to happen, what had happened less than five minutes after Higgins had driven him off, towards the restaurant where Mummy would be disappointed in her missing youngest child.  Mycroft counted the seconds until the bright flash erupted and people fell, people ran, tinny screams issued from the speakers of his lap top.

     He felt his heart clutch in his chest as the seconds ticked past.  Ambulance, police cars, fire trucks, then... Sherlock, limping, leaning on John.  He watched, stared, waited and...there.  There.  Mycroft smiled through his scotch-tinged haze.  They were both alive, John taking a blanket from a paramedic and draping it over Sherlock, John leaning in, a quick touch of forehead to forehead, almost too fast to notice.  People interfered with Mycroft’s line of sight, swarming the scene as Sherlock and John slipped away, ducking from the notice of the police as they limped and half-jogged towards the edge of the screen.  Mycroft hit stop, finished his drink, and closed his eyes.  “Right, Sherlock,” he murmured to the empty room.  “Enough of this willful obtuseness.  We’re doing this right and proper--it will be good for you.”  Eyes still closed, he reached out and pressed a button on his desk.  “Anthea, what is the status of Doctor Watson’s fitting?”  
     “He was at Mister Bloom’s shop when Sherlock texted him this afternoon,” came the immediate response.  “Most of the measurements had already been completed, in spite of Doctor Watson’s...desires to the contrary.”  Reading between the lines, Mycroft knew that John had fought the tailor, Higgins, and anyone who came within snarling distance.  “Sherlock,” Anthea added, “has already sent a colorful text regarding his thoughts on the matter of the tuxedo and the invitations to the gala.”  
    “Thank you.  Please remind the prime minister that our meeting with the president has been moved to Thursday.”    Mycroft smiled; this would end up being resolved more quickly than he had planned.  
***  
    Sherlock curled on the sofa like a Renaissance painting, all lean lines and color saturated contrast--black and white, sapphire and amber, hair and skin, robe and upholstery.  John did his best not to notice, to focus instead on his still-sore hip and shoulder, the bright pink burn marks where embers had found his neck, his hands and, somehow, his stomach.  “Seriously, Sherlock,” he said in his firm, I’m-a-doctor-damn-it-so-you’d-best-listen voice, “you do not corner someone who kills with incendiary devices in their laboratory!  We’re lucky to be alive!”  
     
    “Nonsense,” Sherlock chided.  “We were close enough to the door to miss the worst of the explosion and he was not expecting me to follow him, much less corner him.  The device was imperfect and more flash than actual substance.”  
     
    “We.”

    “What?”

    “We cornered him, Sherlock.  You texted me and waited--thank you, by the bye--and the two of us, together, cornered him.”

    “I should think you would be happy to be part of the whole thing,” Sherlock noted, veering sideways in the conversation.  “Especially since that means you were sprung from Mycroft’s tailor before they could start in on the truly intrusive measurements.”

    John opened one eye to peer at Sherlock and sighed.  “How’d you know?”

    “About your whereabouts or about the measurements?”

    “Both.  Either.  Whatever.”  He flopped down into the comfy chair and sighed roughly.  “Pushing forty and playing twenty questions in my own living room...”

    “Mycroft was doing his best to ensure neither of us saw the other this afternoon.  Why is that?”  Sherlock did not bother to hide his curious gaze, peering at John with the intensity he often gave cold case files.    “My brother has been very generous with you of late, John.  At first, I thought that perhaps you had changed your mind and accepted is offer of a bribe to spy on me but then I realized that you were not keeping the gifts.  Nor were you returning them for cash value.  This,” he said, smiling just a fraction, “pleased me.”

    John finally opened his eyes and vented a weary breath.  “Because I proved myself loyal or because it annoyed Mycroft?”

    “Yes.”

    Nearly half a minute slid past before John slapped his hands onto his knees and pushed himself to his feet.  “Right.  The whole lot of you Holmes men are nuttier than fruitcake.  I’m going to shower and take myself ‘round to the pub.”

    “Mycroft will only have you kidnaped again,” Sherlock called, feeling a frown worm it’s way onto his lips.  He could not quite discern why it pleased him so much, the refusal of Mycroft’s gifts.  It was not because of a long held dislike--John had not known Mycroft as long a he himself had and therefore had not had enough time (a lifetime!) to develop the thick layer of annoyance so carefully cultivated over decade of dinners and gala, family slideshows, trip under big brother’s care to the museum...  “Bollocks,” Sherlock muttered, borrowing one of Lestrade’s favorite phrases.  There was only one thing for it, he told himself, forcing his long legs to unfold against his better judgment and his feet to carry him to his own bedroom.  He would go with John.  If Mycroft was going to insist upon this forced courtship, then Sherlock was going to supervise.

***  
    John closed his eyes (he seemed, he realized, to spend half of his life hiding behind his eyelids, now that he shared a flat with Sherlock) and clutched his pint.  “Sherlock,” he said from between clenched teeth, “what the frilly Hell are you doing?”

    Sherlock smiled at the man near the door; he recognized him as one of Mycroft’s “assistants,” the one sent out whenever his dear brother wanted Sherlock to attend a function in Sussex or worse  “Protecting my blogger,” Sherlock returned easily.  “Why does this place interest you, John? It’s loud, crowded and that woman with the dyed blonde hair just put her hand on my crotch as she passed.  Accident, my eye...”

    John snorted, unable to help himself.  “I like it because I don’t have to think,” he said finally.  “And that cannot possibly be the first time a woman has executed a poorly done pass at you, can it?”

    “Possibly,” Sherlock shrugged.  “I delete things I don’t need.”

    “I’d think a memory of an unsuccessful attempt at pulling would be most useful,” John said, draining the last of his drink.  He glanced up at Sherlock’s pursed lips and hooded eyes and felt...well, he decided, signaling for another pint, he felt like getting well pissed so he would not have to consider either Holmes brother that evening.  Mycroft was just... no, John decided.  Even if the older man had been his type, John could not muster an iota of attraction.  Too much power, too much..everything.  Sherlock, though...well, if he had not been married to his work...or if work had been interested in an open or poly relationship... “Oi,” John snapped out of his reverie as his pint disappeared into Sherlock’s hands.  “That’s mine, it is!”

    “I’m blending in,” Sherlock murmured.  “Trying to fit this little corner of your world.  Find out why it’s so interesting”  He sipped, then frowned.  “This is not good.”

    John took his pint back and frowned into it.  “It’s not supposed to be good,” he muttered.  “It’s supposed to get me tipsy.”

    “Really, John... order something worth the headache.”  Sherlock turned his back on Mycroft’s goon and leaned over the bar, his smile one of the  People Are Annoying But Look At How Pretty I Am variety.  The bartender was there in a heartbeat and Sherlock ordered something that, to John, sounded Gaelic and complicated.  A moment later, Sherlock had a heavy glass in his hand, two fingers of bright amber liquid swirling within.  “Rome may burn,” Sherlock said on a sigh, “but London has decent Scotch.”

    “You drink Scotch?” John asked, turning to lean against the bar, feeling Sherlock’s warmth through his jumper and the other man’s suit coat.  “Since when?”

    “I appreciate it’s nuances,” Sherlock corrected.  “I do not drink when on a case.”  He paused.  “And rarely any other time.”

    “You’re not on a case.”

    “But I am,” he said, his smile now one of his thin, We Are Not Amused variety.  “To use one of those titles you are so fond of, it’s the Case of the Posh Tosser Lusting After The Army Doctor.”

    John froze for a long moment, then irritation thawed him.  “Mycroft,” he said on a growl, “can stuff it”  He threw a few notes down on the bar to pay for his drink (Sherlock can hang and pay for his own, he told himself) before stalking out of the pub, Mycroft’s assistant on his heels. 

    Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Missing the obvious,” he informed the bartender, tossing back the Scotch in one smooth swallow born from years of practice (though, the burn in his throat and stomach told him, his body would remind him soon just how long it had been since that skill had been put into use).  “Who said that I was talking about my brother?”

    Sherlock made it to the pavement in time to see John round the corner and a sleek, black sedan pull away from the kerb.  A few long strides brought him even with the slow moving car (moving slow enough, Sherlock knew, to be meant for him and not John).  The door opened and he leaned in, glare already blazing.  “What,” he demanded of his brother, “do you think you’re doing?”

    Mycroft smiled.  “Love is a fickle beast,  brother dear.  And you’re doing a poor job of taming yours.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

    “I really should be used to this by now,” John sighed, stretching his legs out in the backseat of Mycroft’s black town car.  After a moment, he gave in to a childish urge and put his feet on the seat opposite him, well aware of the traces of mud and muck stuck on the soles.

    “Perhaps,” Anthea replied, sounding as if she would rather be undergoing nasal surgery than sitting in the car with John.  “Mr. Holmes wishes to apologise for his absence but trusts that you will do what is right and proper.”

    John felt his jaw clench and face redden.  It went against everything within him to yell at a woman the way he was sorely tempted to do at that moment, but he knew that Anthea would just be the target of rage meant for Mycroft and possibly Sherlock.  Instead, he took a deep breath and forced himself to smile in what he hoped was not too frightening a fashion.  “And just what is right and proper in this case, then?  Kidnapping me from surgery? Forcing me to go to a tailor and endure a fitting for a tuxedo?  Or is it this kidnapping me off the street so that I can go to this...whatever the Hell this is!” he gestured wildly at Anthea’s evening gown, noticing that she had finally looked up from her Blackberry and as staring at him with one raised brow, her lips quirked into what could pass for a smile. 

    “This is a fundraiser for the victims of landmines in the Middle East,” she said after a brief pause.  John felt the blush on his cheeks go from anger to chagrin.  “Didn’t you read the invitation?”

    “No,” he admitted after a moment.  “And for the record, I think galas and fundraisers are fine, well and good but actually helping by donating directly to the Afghanis, to their hospitals and home-based groups, does them much better.  These charities here in England, so much is shunted to ‘operating costs’ and...” he trailed off on a sigh.  “Did you just try to distract me or was that a happy accident?”

    Anthea smiled thinly and returned to her Blackberry.  After several more moments passed, she said, “We will stop before we reach the gala in order for you to change and freshen up.”

    “If you’d let me go home first, I could have gotten ready there.”

    Another brow raise.  “You would have bolted like a scared deer.”

    “I’m not scared.”

    “I didn’t say that you were.”  She pressed a few more keys on her Blackberry then, with the air of someone doing something dangerous but resigned to it, she turned it off and shifted in her seat to face John more fully.  “If you breathe a word of what I am about to tell you to Mr. Holmes or his brother, I will kill you before you finish your morning piss, understood?”

    John’s mouth fell open and he stared, the mental image of his body on the bathroom floor, penis in hand and a spreading puddle of urine around him, blazed to life.  It did not help that, in the image, Sherlock stood over him, tsking at his corpse for the mess John had made, ruining the mildew colonies which he had been cultivating for over a year now in the name of science.  “You’re not as posh as all that, are you?”

    “Need you ask?” she replied, letting a hint of Cockney slip into her voice.  “Mr. Holmes has been quite thankful for your presence in his brother’s life, Doctor Watson.  He keeps records, in fact.  Before you and with you.  The archives from before your presence in Sherlock’s life are...frightening, even by my standards.  The elder Mr. Holmes has been considerably more...relaxed...since your arrival.  And his brother has been...” here, she paused, and her lips did that odd quirk thing again and she shrugged one shoulder eloquently.  “Needless to say, you have proven to be a calming presence.”  Fingering her Blackberry as if it were her own hand gone numb, she pressed on, her tone becoming markedly more forceful, more commanding.  “Mr. Holmes has attempted to demonstrate his gratitude through gifts of things you need, replacements for inferior models of electronics and clothing for the most part.  But he has also given you gifts which are unseen, the least of which is ensuring your continued employment.  Doctor Sawyer was going to fire you some months ago, did you know?”

    John had suspected as much and, while a spike of gratitude shot through him at the knowledge of this coercion of Mycroft’s, he felt guilt and embarrassment as well, enough to overwhelm the gratefulness.  “If she’s to fire me, then he needs to let it happen.  Interfering in the running of a medical facility is...well, it’s just not done!” 

    “She wanted to fire you solely because of the younger Mr. Holmes.  The late hours, the sudden departures...all due to your, ah, flatmate, no?”  She waited a beat and when John simply pressed his lips into a thin line and looked away, she laughed, low and sultry.  “She’s not jealous, you understand.  She knows the score, as the lads say.  No, she’s simply...looking out for the best interests of her staff and patients.”

    John shot her a disbelieving look.  “You say that as if it’s a joke.  Why would she be jealous?”

    “You’re no longer dating Dr. Sawyer so it’s of no importance.”

    “Look--”

    “We’re here,” she interrupted.  “You have fifteen minutes.  You will find an electric razor, cologne, tooth paste and a toothbrush waiting for you.  If you are not back here within the alloted time, I will come in after you.  Do you understand?”

    John hesitated, unwilling to allow himself to be cowed by Mycroft via his assistant, but knowing when to pick his battles.  “Ten,” he muttered, and let himself out of the car and hurried up the steps of the imposing, Victorian townhouse.

*****

    Sherlock jerked his greatcoat closer about his body, not because he was cold but because it kept him from acting upon the urge to throttle Mycroft and do something rude involving his elder brother’s umbrella and a certain orifice on said brother’s body.  “I know you have him,” he snarled, Mycroft’s benign smile only fueling his tempter.  “He is not yours, Mycroft!”

    “Is he yours, then?” came the questioning reply.  “He did not say such during any of our...visits.”  Mycroft glanced up at the Victorian monstrosity outside the car’s window.  “If the sole purpose of your visit,” here, he paused and smirked--Sherlock had taken two cabs and ran an entire block to catch up with Mycroft-- “was to inform me of a sudden change in your relationship... Well, really, Sherlock, you could have just called.  Or texted.”

    “It’s pathetic,” Sherlock bit out, “a man your age, chasing after John as if he’s some Regency miss at a come-out and you’re the local highwayman.”

    “That was quite purple of you, brother dear.  Have you been reading Mills and Boon in order to research...well, proper feeling?”

    “Those hardly demonstrate proper feeling,” Sherlock muttered, hating the faint pink stain he knew was creeping over his cheeks.  He had read six of the damned novels before he found the pattern, verified it, and grew bored.  “The sex isn’t even that good, anyway.”

    “With John? What a shame...”  
     
    “In the books!”  A glance at Mycroft told Sherlock that his brother had been baiting him, trying to get just such a reaction.  “This must stop.  You’re embarrassing John and annoying him.  An annoyed John is damned near impossible to work with.”

    “You annoy him often enough.”

    “Yes but he seems to like me, for some reason.”

    “Hmmm.”

    “That,” Sherlock retorted, “is not a proper response.”

    Mycroft responded with another smile and sliding from the car to stand on the pavement before the house.  Sherlock, after a moment’s hesitation, joined him.  “Your doctor will be down within two minutes,” he announced.  “He is attending a fundraiser as my guest this evening and, since you are not dressed for the occasion, you will either go home and remedy the situation or just not attend.  It’s up to you.”

    Sherlock saw red.  He had, up until that point, considered the expression to be hyperbolic at best, trite at worst.  Now, he knew that it can and did hold an element of truth.  Everything was tinted scarlet as he lunged at Mycroft, his palm stinging as it made contact with his brother’s surprised, pale face.  Car doors slammed behind him but Sherlock did not care, hissing in pain as Mycroft returned the favor, slapping him hard across the cheek.  Sherlock had the reach advantage, grabbing Mycroft by the tie to keep him at arm’s length and slapping him with his free hand.  Mycroft, though, had the elder brother advantage.  Years of practice in childhood and adolescence came flooding back as he kicked out, catching Sherlock on the kneecap in a glancing blow, just enough to loosen the younger man’s hold.  Another ringing smack as Anthea tried to pull Sherlock back and Higgins shouted for orders, demanding to know if he could “just shoot the damned git”.  Mycroft snarled a response and slapped Sherlock again, this time on the upper arm as Sherlock dodged.  They both paused for a moment, panting, and as if by some unspoken agreement, lunged at each other again, tumbling into the privet hedge.   
     
    “Stuffy, fat, bastard!”

    “Arrogant twat!”

    “Mother loved you best!”

    “She loved Sherringford best, you twit!”

    “Really?”  Smack.  “Bastard!”

    “Mummy and Father were married, thank you!” Smack.

    “Knob-head!”

    “Arse!”

    “I see why John isn’t interested---”

    “Fuck you, Mycroft!”

    “Oi!”  At John’s loud shout, the tone in that single syllable enough to have sent an entire platoon of soldiers scurrying for cover, the Holmes brothers broke apart.  Mycroft stood first, dusting leaves from his jacket and smoothing his hand over his mussed hair.  Sherlock unfolded from the ruined hedge like a flapping crow, shaking his coat and muttering under his breath, not meeting John’s intense glare.  “What the bloody Hell is happening?”

    Anthea spared him an appreciative glance and smiled.  “You’re the bone these two dogs are fighting over.”

    “Sherlock!” John strode to his friend’s side and grabbed his chin, forcing the taller man to look at him in the eye.  “You’re going to have a bruise there,” he muttered, doctor mode engaged.  “Need some ointment on that scratch.  And you!” he turned his attention to Mycroft but did not move to his side.  “I...am flattered,” he said, still in the same tone but softening somewhat, “but I cannot return any romantic interest.”

    Mycroft smiled, despite a bleeding lip, and managed to still look refined and a bit posh, the few leaves in his hair making him look like some sort of Edwardian Bacchus.  “John, John, John...you are so charming in your self involvement.”

    “What?”

    Sherlock’s jaw clenched under John’s lingering touch.  “Right,” he snapped.  “Come on.”  He grabbed John by the wrist and dragged him towards the nearest car, the one that Mycroft had so recently vacated.  “You’re not going to the gala!”

    “Oi!” John twisted but found himself blocked from escape by Higgins on one side and Anthea on the other. 

    “You,” Anthea pronounced in dangerous tones, “are about to get another gift from Mycroft.”  Her grim smile was enough to make John wish that he had just stayed home that morning.  “Higgins, drive!” 

    The car door slammed, surprising John, and he tumbled back across Sherlock’s lap as the car lurched into motion.  Shoving himself into a sitting position, he let his ire flow.  “What the fresh Hell is going on?  I was willing to go along with this gala mess, to a point, but now YOU are kidnapping me?  Sherlock, I can only handle so much insanity and I’m at my limit for the month! The year! The--” his words were cut off by long, cool fingers pressed against his lips. “Mmph.”

    “Mycroft,” Sherlock said in a stiff, stilted tone, “is insufferable when he’s right.”

    “Mmmph?”

    “It occurred to me last night, after he intercepted my departure from the pub, that his gift-giving, his attentions... they were designed not simply to thank you for keeping me alive but to draw my attention to you.”

    John raised a brow pointedly and Sherlock lowered his fingers.  “It’s not like I didn’t know you existed,” he huffed. 

    “Obtuse as ever.”  Sherlock leaned in close, pale eyes glinting in the flash of streetlights.  “It seems that I have...feelings,” he said the word as if it tasted bad, felt slimy on his tongue.  “Feelings for you, in fact.”

    “...ah.”  John blinked, leaning back into the seat.  “Sherlock...”

    “I know, you’re heterosexual.”

    “Um, bi, actually, but...” He shook his head, too many thoughts pressing in at once.  “I’m...I’m not understanding this.”

    “I was jealous, John.  Jealous at the idea that you were interested in Mycroft, then jealous over his attentions to you.  I thought...thought that perhaps you would leave Baker Street, move in to one of Mycroft’s pied a terres...” he trailed off, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.  “Damn.”

    John stared at Sherlock’s profile for a long minute then sighed. “Where on earth did you learn how to talk like that?”

    “Pardon?”

    “Not like you do normally... the things you and Mycroft were shouting at each other...Funniest thing I’ve heard in ages.”  As if to underscore, a giggle escaped John’s lips.  “Sorry,” he lied.  “Just....twat?  Really?”

    “I said knob-end.  He said twat.”

    “Still!”

    Sherlock glared.  “John, I’m having a crisis.  I never have crises.  This is not funny.”

    “Try sitting on my side of the car,” he replied.  “This is sheer madness!”

    The car was rolling to a halt and both men fell silent.  “John,” Sherlock finally said, “you can leave.  Go...go make up to Sarah and live a nice, normal, bland, oatmeal kind of life.”

    John felt a tremor start in his belly and spill into his chest, a thousand butterflies swirling into the night sky.    His voice vibrated in his throat, startling him, the words a surprise as he said them.  “No.  Let’s go upstairs.”

    Sherlock stared, eyes flaring wide for just a moment.  “Yes.  Yes.”

   


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

    John felt Sherlock’s gaze on him like hot fingers, stroking down his neck, his spine... He swallowed hard, wishing he had a nice cuppa to soothe his dry throat.  They had made it up to the flat, through the door and...nothing.  Sherlock stood, back to the wall next to the coat hook, staring at John as if he held some magnificent secret.  John, for his part, felt incredibly awkward.  He wanted, he desired, he... “Oh, Hell,” he muttered.  “I’m going to make tea.”  He didn’t wait for Sherlock’s reply, turning and marching (well, almost...it was really more of a resolute walk) into the kitchen. 

    “You didn’t tell me that you’re bisexual,” Sherlock finally said, standing in the kitchen doorway as John poured water into the electric kettle.  “You’ve never dated men.”

    “Not since coming back from Afghanistan, no,” John allowed, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to turn and face his flatmate.  His best friend.  His...his Sherlock, a less-than-helpful voice in his head supplied.  “And before...well, not often.”

    Sherlock nodded, mostly to himself, seemingly confirming something.  “What I said in the car, John--”

    “Sherlock, shut up.”  John flicked off the whistling kettle and closed the distance between them.  “Just...shut up.”  The kiss was not gentle but it was not brutal, either.  It was hard, a mash of teeth and lips and noses as angles were sorted and both tried for dominance out of habit, out of preference.  Finally, John sighed against Sherlock’s lips.  “This won’t work if you insist upon arguing.”

    “It will work if you just admit that I’ve won our nonexistent argument,” the detective countered, using the opportunity to seize control, to nip John’s lower lip with his teeth and illicit a soft, low moan.  “As loathe as I am to admit Mycroft is right in any way, shape or form, I’m rather glad he is a manipulative ass sometimes.”

    “We’ll send a thank you note,” John agreed, pushing Sherlock back, making the taller man stumble as they lurched and tangled themselves into the living room.  John was not quite sure how it happened but, within a few steps, he was against the sofa then on his back, Sherlock’s lithe body against him  “You’re heavier than you look.”

    “John Watson, soul of romance,” Sherlock muttered against his neck.

    “Didn’t think,” he paused to gulp a breath as Sherlock’s teeth found just the right spot, the one that made all of the blood in John’s body shoot southward at high speed, that sent thrills of pleasure rocketing through his veins.  “Didn’t think you were much for romance anyway.”  Sherlock’s only reply was a muffled murmur against John’s earlobe, something which sent John’s fingers scrambling for the detective’s back, tugging the silk shirt free of tight trousers, ruching up the jacket that just seemed to exist solely for the purpose of infuriating anyone who might seek to touch the warm, smooth skin hidden beneath the layers.  “Damn it, Sherlock, you’re wearing too many clothes!”

    “Said the man in the tuxedo,” Sherlock retorted, the smirk on his lips plain in his voice.

    “That can be remedied.”  John had barely finished the sentence before long, nimble fingers were working at his bow tie, then cuff links.  He did not fight Sherlock’s ministrations, letting his body be tugged and pushed and pulled until he was down to his undershirt and pants.  Sherlock sat back, kneeling between John’s legs, and seemed a bit flushed.  “Your turn,” John murmured thickly.  Sherlock undressed so quickly that John was certain buttons were lost and the lines of those trousers would never be the same.  One leg on the floor, the other pressed against the back of the sofa, John held out his arms and tilted his head back, welcoming Sherlock’s weight against him.  He hadn’t lied--he hadn’t dated any men since returning but a few flings, a quick blowjob after a pub night with an old friend from university, a pick up he met a few days before running into Mike again... It had all been perfunctory, scratching an itch.  This...well, the itch was definitely being scratched but it wasn’t like the others since his return.  Sherlock was his best friend, the one person he would die for without hesitation.  And currently, he was the person licking their way down his chest, heading for destinations southward.  “Are you sure,” John asked, his breath shaking on the exhale.  “Don’t want to rush...”

    “I do.”  Mycroft had wanted him to do things right and proper, Sherlock mused as he tugged down John’s rather bright plaid cotton boxer shorts.  Well, as far as these things went, he decided, this was a right and proper snog and shag...  It was all a matter of semantics and he would tell Mycroft as much.  The twat.  John’s gasping groan pulled Sherlock back to the matters at, ah, hand.  Namely, John’s cock, bobbing with the shallow, shaking breaths of both men. 

    “Alright?” John wasn’t quite sure if he was asking about his size or the situation in general.   
     
    “Oh, yes,” Sherlock breathed, the words teasing across the exposed glans of John’s erection, sending all extraneous thoughts skittering from the doctor’s mind like so many mice for the baseboards.  Sherlock licked his own lips and leaned closer, not unfamiliar with the act itself but feeling oddly nervous, virginal, since this was John, his John, the friend and soon-lover that he did not even know he wanted until it happened.  Well, he amended, that was not entirely true.  He had known for a bit now that he wanted John.  At first, it had been an academic exercise, the wanting, testing his own boundaries, pushing them further, so far out that he almost missed the edge of the map.  He really, really hated Mycroft sometimes.  Especially when he was right.  John’s subtle, self-conscious throat clearing made Sherlock smile then, the realization that he had been simply staring at the other man’s cock for several long seconds (a few too many to claim sheer admiration, though Sherlock would have protested that any amount of time spent staring at John’s cock in admiration was never enough).  “Last chance, Doctor Watson.”

    “Sherlock,” he groaned, his cock twitching as if in protest of the delay, “if you don’t do something now, I’ll either die from blue balls or just give you up as a lost cause!”

    “Really,” Sherlock drawled, “you, as a doctor, should know that blue balls are not fatal.” He smiled, fingers circling the base of John’s cock and squeezing firmly.  “But why take chances?” 

    John’s gasp faded into a groan as the first few inches of his length disappeared into Sherlock’s mouth.  Warm and wet, Sherlock’s tongue teased around John’s foreskin, tasting the soft flesh, teasing it back until the entire glans was exposed for him to taste, to lave with broad strokes as he pulled back, his fingers squeezing the base of John’s cock once more.  This, John decided, definitely earned Mycroft a thank you note.  Not that he’d mention specifics because, well, just...no.  Very much a bit not right.  “God, Sherlock,” the words tumbled from his lips in the rush of a pleasured sigh.  This seemed to be all the encouragement needed to motivate Sherlock into definitive action, to stop his teasing perusal.  It wasn’t the blowjob to end all blowjobs, to send poets scrambling for new metaphors and exhume Wilde in an attempt to apologize because now, now they understood, but it was amazing, John decided, is entire world narrowing to just the points of contact between him and Sherlock.  Hand on hips, squeezing until fingers reddened flesh; tongue lapping, laving; cheeks hollowing and a low moan rumbling through Sherlock’s throat and sending tremors of golden-hot need shooting through John’s body like fireworks.  The obscene slurping noises underscored the moaning and soon, John lost track of who made which noise, which voice belonged to whom as he began to thrust slowly, carefully, into Sherlock’s mouth.

    Sherlock gagged just a little, adjusting jaw and neck, repositioning so that he could press his own leaking cock against John’s leg, frotting away as the taste of John’s precum spread across his tongue, became all he could taste.  Part of his brain seemed determined to catalog, to gather evidence, to memorize each and every detail in vivid color as if he might need this one day, might need to reconstruct the scene and search it for clues he had missed.  The musky-sweet smell of John’s body, his sweat and skin overlaid with the faint scent of soap, of the tuxedo’s fabric and the wash powder used on his own pants tangled with the sound of panting, of pleading barely given breath, with the sensation of hot, hard cock and silk-smooth skin sliding under demanding tongue and questing fingers; all of his senses, Sherlock decided, were in a tangled skein and for once, he did not care.  He turned his gaze up to find John’s eyes closed, brow furrowed, lips moving in silent supplication.  Sherlock smiled and curved the fingers of his free hand to cup John’s balls, pressing below them to find the perineum.  John arched, pushing deep into Sherlock’s mouth and hissing an apology.  In reply, Sherlock repeated the maneuver and purposefully slid his mouth lower as John arched again.  It would not be long, he knew--John’s body was trembling, practically vibrating, and his own was tensing, the release gathering low in his belly, tight like a shining knot of light and heat that became almost unbearably sweet before his  body jerked, stilled, and he felt his own release spill between them, sliding hot and wet against his cock and John’s leg.  John giggled, gasped, and then cursed as Sherlock resumed his rhythm, drawing hard on John’s cock, slipping a finger even lower, pressing against the puckered opening there.  “Jesus!” John shouted, his release seeming to surprise him, his fingers tangling in Sherlock’s hair and alternately trying to pull him away or hold him close as spurts of hot semen filled the detective’s mouth, seeped down his chin and throat. 

    John took a deep, shaking breath as Sherlock pulled away from his softening cock with a soft popping noise and stretched out beside him on the sofa, their bodies sticky and sweat-dappled, fingers seeking purchase on arms, face, hair.  “That,” John said finally, “wasn’t how I expected this to happen.”

    “You expected this to happen?” Sherlock asked mildly, though the sharp curiosity in his voice was evident to John.

    “Well...not as such.  I...I’ve had thoughts about it before.”  He wondered if his embarrassment was evident in his voice.  “But in the car...well, that’s when I started really thinking about this happening, it being real.”

    Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, then he sighed.  “Mycroft will be even more insufferable than usual, you know.  This whole thing, he wanted to thank you for keeping me alive (as if I wasn’t doing that on my own, thank you very much.  I’ve managed just fine for over thirty years!) and decided that playing matchmaker was the ultimate thank-you gift.”

    John wondered, briefly, if he should be insulted that Mycroft had essentially pimped Sherlock out as thanks, then decided that was  something to worry about later.  If ever.  “Well, we could just not tell him, if it make you feel better.”

    “He’d figure it out.  Little weasel has eyes all over London.  He’ll be insufferable, thinking he’s induced a proper courtship between us.”

    “There’s hardly anything proper about this,” John chuckled.  “I was worried that he was trying to court me himself, what with all the gifts and tea and...things.”  He closed his eyes, post-orgasmic lassitude creeping ever closer.  “So really, he didn’t get his way.  You’re not courting me.”

    Silence, then, “Is that what you’d like? A proper courtship?”

    “Sherlock, I honestly don’t know what I would do if you tried.”  He could feel the detective’s smile against his neck.

    “Do you really think we could hide this from Mycroft? Just to take the piss out of him?”

    John shrugged, his fingers twining with Sherlock’s.  “He’s your archnemesis.  You tell me.”

    The smile grew.  “I think it would be brilliant to try.”

    John nodded, sleep finally claiming him  “Right,” he murmured.  “Tomorrow, we will definitely not shag in front of Mycroft.  Make him wonder.”


End file.
